


The Notebook

by satismagic



Series: Sex Must Be Mixed [1]
Category: Star Trek RPF
Genre: Angst, Don Quixote - Freeform, First Time, M/M, Memory, New York, Pie, Pining, Tennyson, The Glass Menagerie, a song, burned umber - perfect black coffee - glowing embers in the depth, cerulean – Bombay Sapphire – the deep end of the pool, even more quotes, icarus - Freeform, more quotes, possibly poetry, quotes, top!Zach, vegan cupcakes, weird doodles, yet another quote
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-26
Updated: 2014-02-02
Packaged: 2018-01-10 02:55:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1153926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/satismagic/pseuds/satismagic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An essential part of this story is true: The notebook really does exist. The writing inside, however, does not. Also, Chris never stole that notebook. Because he never stole the notebook, and because the notebook does not contain anything mentioned in this story, Chris couldn’t read it and he couldn’t show it to Zach. In other words, nothing of what you’re about to read ever happened. But the funny thing is? In an alternative universe, it totally <i>could </i>happen. Maybe it did.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Stolen

**Author's Note:**

  * For [millietreks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/millietreks/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Disclaimer:** An essential part of this story is true: The notebook really does exist. The writing inside, however, does not. Also, Chris never stole that notebook. Because he never stole the notebook, and because the notebook does not contain anything mentioned in this story, Chris couldn’t read it and he couldn’t show it to Zach. In other words, nothing of what you’re about to read ever happened. But the funny thing is? In an alternative universe, it totally _could_ happen. Maybe it did.
> 
>  **Dedication:** This story is a gift for Pintoinlove in appreciation for her enthusiasm and her creativity and all the wonderful things she does for this fandom. “Wordplay as Foreplay” fandom wouldn’t be the same without you. ♥ ♥ ♥
> 
>  **Acknowledgements:** First and foremost I am grateful to Chris Pine for almost stealing the notebook. Basically, this story is his fault.
> 
> However, this story, like all children, owes its existence to parents, grandparents, and great-grandparents: all the wonderful stories in “Wordplays as Foreplay” and “Star Trek” fandom written months and years ago. Without you, this story wouldn’t be alive, either.
> 
> Next, a shout-out to Museaway, intrepid cheerleader and enabler: Here be squee!
> 
> Last but not least, I am indebted to my beta-readers, Aranel Took and Jouissants, for patient, perceptive, and precise proofreading. Thank you so much for making this world a better place and this story a better read.
> 
>  **Fanmix:** Listen to the fanmix [HERE](http://8tracks.com/junomagic/the-notebook-1).

**Song for this chapter:** [“Broken” (Elisa)](http://youtu.be/4a70KSA4wKQ)

### Stolen

Jet-lagged and fuzzy-headed from the premiere frenzy of the previous day – the opening of “Jack Ryan” in London had been epic – Chris emptied the pockets of the latest in a long line of tan suits. He needed to hand it over for dry-cleaning. The tweed was lovely; such a luxurious fabric, soft and warm, but not stifling. However, he couldn’t wear a premiere outfit in public twice, so there was no sense in keeping it.

He pulled some odds and ends out of the various pockets: sunglasses, tissues, cigarettes (no lighter), three pens (one of them broken), a condom (not used, thank god), a small, smiling crocheted orange (or was that supposed to be a tribble? but as far as he knew, tribbles didn’t come with green leaves and stems – though of course with Star Trek you could always be wrong about things like that), a key card he didn’t recognize, a spoon (a spoon?!) ... and a notebook.

_A notebook?_

He frowned. He couldn’t remember taking a notebook with him. Of course he also didn’t remember the key card or the cigarettes or the spoon. _Or_ the amigurumi. Though it was a safe bet a fan had given that thing to him at the premiere. _A fan._ Out of the sea of faces he’d drowned in yesterday a group of awestruck young women stood out in retrospect. They’d been remarkably good-natured when his publicist had told them he couldn’t take photos due to time constraints. He’d tried to compromise with a vaguely hopeful “I’ll come back around”, only to hear the top security guy behind him snap: “No, he won’t.” But despite the disappointment, and although the girls had to be freezing after waiting in the cold for an ice age or two, they had just smiled and gasped and giggled and held out things for him to sign. He actually remembered signing this notebook. Because the lined paper had made him think about notebook preferences. How he liked blanks, and Zach liked lines, and how much it sucked that he wouldn’t make it to Zach’s show after all. Then his publicist had tapped him on the arm and told him to hurry up, and he’d turned around and ...

... never returned the notebook.

_Damn._

Uncomfortable, he stared at the notebook. What now? _Open it,_ he told himself. _Maybe there’s a name and an address. Then you can give it to the PR people, tell them to put the notebook and a few extras into a package as an apology, and ..._ Of course the flyleaf was blank. The one at the back, too. Maybe there’d be a clue inside. Or one of those horrible love letters. Or worse, fan fiction.

Should he just hand it over to his people, never mind what the notebook contained? So at best an intern would make fun of its contents, and at worst it would get lost in the constant chaos that constituted his public correspondence? He frowned. That didn’t seem right. After all, he _had_ stolen the notebook. Even if he hadn’t meant to. Now it was his responsibility. Also, notebooks. Perhaps his thing about notebooks was a legacy of his days as an English major. There was something sacred about notebooks. He was terribly tempted to chew on his thumb nail. Worse, he was pushing the tip of his tongue between his lips again. He was ready to give up and admit defeat on that front; obviously, he’d never manage to rid himself of that particular habit.

Taking a deep breath, he flicked open the first proper page and couldn’t stifle a sigh of relief. Just some technical gibberish. Some kind of computer stuff, he guessed. At once he felt even worse. What if the notebook was important for the woman’s job? Shit, he had to find a way to return it. He paged through it. Oh yes, these notes were definitely work-related. But he caught nothing that told him anything about the owner. And after twenty pages or so, the notes stopped.

However, he hadn’t yet come across his signature, and the pages in the second half of the notebook looked well-thumbed. Chris flipped to the middle of the book. It fell open easily. The left page was empty. The right page sported a single line of text right in the middle. Beautiful, looped handwriting. Almost calligraphy. And a quote:

> **Where love rules, there is no will to power, and where power predominates, love is lacking. The one is the shadow of the other.**

_Huh?_

Okay. That was unexpected. But at least it wasn’t a love letter. Or bad porn, written or drawn. On the other hand, it was a seriously _strange_ quote. He couldn’t place it. And that? That bugged him. Another throw-back to Berkeley. He always had to discover the origins of a quote. It was a compulsion. An obsession. In college, it had been a useful skill. Now it was a weird quirk his friends made fun of.

He read the quote again. Power and love and shadows. Suddenly, he remembered one of Zach’s hipster Instagram images. A picture of Zach’s shadow on a wall, complete with emo light-effects that would have made JJ proud. The caption had been about shadows, too. About shadows and ... identity? No. Not identity. But ... _something_. Chris groaned. Zach would recognize the quote. Maybe he should call Zach and ask him. _What time is it in New York?_ he wondered. But these days they weren’t really talking to each other. They were only talking _about_ each other in random interviews. And if his stomach kind of twisted at that thought, it was probably just the jet-lag and too much champagne at the premiere yesterday. Besides, in a few months they’d start filming the last Star Trek movie they were all contracted for, and they’d basically live in each other’s pockets again. Maybe he’d simply Google the quote. But somehow that seemed like cheating.

Several frantic knocks executed in a frantic “Big Bang Theory” rhythm interrupted his musings. “Chris? _I_ need that suit, and _you_ need to get going.” The muffled voice of his assistant filtered through the closed door. “Chris? You’re already running late again. Get a move on, man.”

Cursing under his breath, Chris stuffed the notebook into his jacket and did as he was told. But before he headed to his next appointment, he ordered his assistant to get him a ticket for Zach’s show, never mind how crazy his schedule currently was. And if it took the creation of an alternative universe, he didn’t give a damn. He was going to New York, and he would see that play.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The quote _“Where love rules, there is no will to power, and where power predominates, love is lacking. The one is the shadow of the other.”_ is an allusion to the [“Captain Spanky” series](http://archiveofourown.org/series/6446) by Medeafic.


	2. Something I Ought To Do

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Song for this chapter:** [“It All Disappears” (Bone Poets Orchestra)](http://www.bonepoets.com/08_Bone_Poets_Orchestra_It_All_Disappears.mp3)

### Something I Ought To Do

A few days later, Chris hid away from the world and the filming of “Horrible Bosses 2” with sandwiches and salad and Smart Water. Somehow each premiere seemed a worse kind of hell than all previous ones rolled into one. It didn’t really help to have days on set thrown into the mix. Once again he was tempted to run away. Away from the circus and the chaos. To lock himself up in an ivory tower somewhere. But of course that was not an option. He was in two major franchises now, he was involved in several smaller projects at various stages of completion, and had some great and exciting stuff lined up. And if he smiled hard enough when he looked in the mirror while telling himself how _great_ and how _exciting_ it all was, maybe he’d believe it.

Then he realized he had no book or newspaper to keep himself entertained for lunch. When he patted down his jacket, he realized that he’d also forgotten his phone. Clearly, it was one of those days. There was just that damn notebook.

Succumbing to boredom (or perhaps rather sordid curiosity), he flipped it open again, right in the middle.

> **Where love rules, there is no will to power, and where power predominates, love is lacking. The one is the shadow of the other.**

Again, he found himself frowning at the quote. His relationship with Iris – well, arrangement, really – was over and done with, and he regretted that more than he’d anticipated. She had been such a good sport about it. Less of a hassle than most models he knew. Fun and European. Adventurous, in bed and outside of bed (she’d even suggested pegging, but of course they’d never gotten around to actually trying that).

His publicist was already pestering him about dates again, but he really wasn’t in the mood for another “agreement” with a model or an up-and-coming actress. And he couldn’t even remember the last time he met a woman he was genuinely interested in. Someone with the sense of humor and the kind of intelligence he’d still be able to appreciate years down the road. He drowned a sigh in a glass of Smart Water. Somehow he thought he knew less about love than ever. He’d definitely never been in a relationship where love _ruled_. Fun, yes. Common sense and convenience, sure. Power ... A strange feeling stirred in his stomach as he imagined how power might be expressed in a relationship. For some reason (probably because of the inevitable Sylar connection) he had to think of Zach. Not of “Heroes”, though. He thought of Zach’s eyes. Of his pictures in Tyler’s latest book. Of his perfectly controlled intensity. Chris had spent way too much time looking at those photos.

Shivering, Chris hastily turned the page.

> **# The Love Song of the North American Douchebag**  
>  **# It happens like this**

He snorted. Okay, _that_ he could identify with. Though, hashtags? Did that mean the writer had copied the lines from Twitter? The lines definitely looked like something Zach would Tweet. Well, minus the capital letters, of course. Because upper case was so establishment. And lower case was so progressive. (But there was no punctuation, and just to be even more contrary, Zach was rather particular about correct punctuation.)

Chris looked at the next page. Another quote, or rather: parts of a quote. Though this time in the upper half of the page. And, he noted with a strange mixture of satisfaction and relief, he recognized the source at a glance.

> **don’t stop now/his fingers rode my fingers** **as my hand went over the paper/like nothing else in my life up to now/you got it/something I ought to do/really something**

_Raymond Carver,_ he thought. _Collected Stories, The Cathedral. Minus correct capitalization, complete sentences,_ and _proper punctuation._ Berkeley was good for something after all. Also, he’d always liked that particular story. Prose like that, it was more than mere words. There was _music_ to language like that. Melody. Something that tugged at your heartstrings like a song.

> **not common, but essential**
> 
> **_(i would pick mind melds 2_   
> _all that bonding stuff)_ **

Was that another quote? Or a comment? Well, the remark in parentheses was _definitely_ a comment, and it finally told him something about the owner of the notebook. He felt almost annoyed, and disappointed. Just another Star Trek fan. Also, a _Star Trek fan_? Quoting Carver? That just didn’t seem right. Of course an action hero actor recognizing fragments of Carver at a glance probably didn’t make much sense, either.

Mind melds, though. He wouldn’t mind them. In the privacy of his own thoughts he could admit that. A mind meld would mean excruciating intimacy and grueling honesty. And if he had this kind of courage, to expose himself to another’s investigation like that, who knew where he’d be right now? For some reason – probably just because of the Trek connection – he thought of Zach again. For all his friend’s esoteric jungle experiences and his grand talk about authenticity and self-discovery, Chris was pretty sure that Zach would rather burn all his fug hats in a big, public bonfire than submit willingly to a mind meld. Why that thought depressed him, Chris had no idea.

Shaking his head, he put the notebook away and concentrated on his lunch instead. That was healthier. And a lot saner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> • “The Love Song of the North American Douchebag” refers to [the story with the same title by gyzym](http://archiveofourown.org/works/852395). 
> 
> • “It Happens Like This” refers to [the story with the same title by labeledbones](http://archiveofourown.org/works/942321). 
> 
> • The fragments of Carver are a textual allusion to [“A Passage That Sings” by Rave](http://archiveofourown.org/works/391999%0A). 
> 
> • “not common but essential” refers to [the mind meld story with the same title by preromantics](http://archiveofourown.org/works/102311).


	3. Let Me Come Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Song for this chapter:** [“Home” (Edward Sharpe & The Magnetic Zeros)](http://youtu.be/rjFaenf1T-Y)

### Let Me Come Home

A couple of days later Chris was on the plane to New York, and predictably bored. Stupid idiot that he was, he hadn’t grabbed a book but just that damn notebook when he’d left the house in a hurry. He glanced at the magazines stacked up on wheeled shelf a few feet ahead of his seat, and grimaced. Nope, not in the mood to look at himself (or at Iris), definitely not.

So he gulped down his orange juice, poured himself a glass of water to chase away the sweetness of the juice, and opened the notebook again. Resolutely, he ignored the shadow quote, the American douchebag, Carver and the mind meld, and flipped to the following page. The left page was blank, but the right-hand side presented him with yet another quotation.

> **Home is wherever I'm with you.**

The quote was familiar, but he didn’t recognize it. Or did he? He frowned and hummed thoughtfully to himself. _Hummed!_ That was it. It wasn’t a quote from a poem or a story, but a line from a song. _Song lyrics_. Of course! That mystery solved, the puzzle pieces clicked into place, and he had to bite his tongue not to start singing the chorus of the Edward Sharpe song: _“Home, let me come home, home is wherever I'm with you.”_

The quotation was surrounded by weird doodles. The sun was a smirking orange (what was it with fans and oranges, lately?), and the clouds seemed to consist of ... pies. Or at least fluffy baked goods alternatively labelled “pie” and “π”. Instead of birds, eye-shaped fish were flying around the line of text. And he wasn’t quite sure if the shapes left and right of the quoted song lyrics were supposed to symbolize lightning or trees.

... At least the fan girl with the notebook had good taste in music.

 _Home._ Such a nice song; such a soothing, comfortable rhythm. He could imagine singing that song, playing it on his guitar. Sitting in the sunshine, on his terrace, next to his pool. Perhaps even dangling his feet in the water (and risking his precious guitar? okay, maybe not so much). But, yeah, that was a seriously _nice_ song. Comfy. So why the fuck did it make him _ache_ like that?

 _Because you have no one to be home with,_ an insidious, soft voice inside his mind supplied. _Because you didn’t even call Zach to let him know you’re going to be there tonight._

 _I’ll text him when I’m actually in New York,_ Chris thought belligerently. _He’s probably still asleep right now. Or walking the dogs. Or doing lunch with the bf._

He switched on the TV to tune out his own thoughts. When that didn’t work, he grabbed a magazine after all, even though it made his skin crawl. _You should be grateful, Pine_. Normally, that sermon did the trick. Because most of the time he _was_ grateful. He liked his job. He made good money with it. And he was finally in a position to pick and choose jobs. Sort of. Within limits. (He tried not to make his agent twitch or his father give him The Look.) So what if Zach had defended Chris’s current projects as “eclectic” to the rest of the Trek cast? So what if a more accurate term was probably “random”, and if the stuff he actually cared about had developed a nasty tendency to fall through the cracks? _It could be worse_ , he admonished himself, his inner voice stern. _At least Ryan made a few covers. Even if the reviews are wavering._ He ignored his too practiced smile on the title page and quickly leafed past Iris’s unhappy expression in the background of a few pictures to immerse himself in some real articles. However, he couldn’t concentrate at all. His thoughts kept chasing in circles and flying ahead to New York. To Zach and his play. To the notebook and that mysterious shadow quote. To that song. Back to Zach.

 _Pull yourself together, man_. Chris bit his tongue so he wouldn’t accidentally talk to himself out loud where others could hear him. _You can’t possibly be this nervous just because you’re going to see a friend’s play._ He poured himself another glass of orange juice.

But when the plane touched down in New York, he had the damn song still stuck in his mind, and his stomach was hurting.

 _Just too much orange juice,_ he told himself as he hailed a cab. _Or an ulcer._ _That’s all._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> • The song lyrics mentioned in this chapter belong to the song “Home” by “Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros”.
> 
> • The quote of the song lyrics in the notebook refers to the series [“Home Is Wherever I'm With You” by millietreks](http://archiveofourown.org/series/66139).


	4. It Is Sentimental, It Is Not Realistic; It Is Life-Defining

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Song for this chapter:** [“Mr. Rock ‘n’ Roll” (Amy Macdonald)](http://youtu.be/_nkJgw0dvOk)

### It Is Sentimental, It Is Not Realistic; It Is Life-Defining

Chris didn’t text Zach after all.

When he took the cab from his hotel to the theater, he wasn’t even sure if he’d try to stick around afterwards. If he was lucky enough not to be recognized sneaking inside (that would be the day), he might head back to the hotel right after the show. He was only scheduled to leave New York in two days – he really needed a break at the moment – so he could always call Zach tomorrow (though he had no idea how he’d explain not dropping in after the show) – and of course he could always catch an earlier flight back to L.A. if New York was too much for his peace of mind right now. And it wasn’t as if he had anything to prove. To Zach. Or to the media. Or to himself. Well, maybe to himself.

Of course Chris was spotted pretty much the moment he got out of the cab in front of the Booth Theatre. Frankly, he hadn’t anticipated such a turnout in terms of fans, not for a serious play like “The Glass Menagerie”. So much for slipping away unseen. To his surprise, it wasn’t that bad, though. Maybe because he wasn’t jostled by security or hustled by publicists. Maybe because he wasn’t in a hurry to go somewhere, do something, be someone. However, he refused to sign any playbills. He had nothing to do with the play, for heaven’s sake! But he did put his signature on pretty much everything else except naked skin. (Although in one case he was almost tempted.) (Almost.)

One thing about theaters, though: People were in general better behaved than out in the streets. Once he’d claimed his seat, he was left alone. Alone with his thoughts – and that strange mixture of anticipation and anxiety that had taken hold of him.

When Zach appeared on the stage, Chris felt as if he had the breath knocked out of him. As if they were doing that stupid fight scene on the bridge all over again, with Zach’s hands wrapped around his throat while he gasped for air and tried not to drown in Zach’s dark eyes. And why did his mind have to flash back to that moment out of all possible Zach memories of seven fucking years?

_“The play is memory. Being a memory play, it is dimly lighted, it is sentimental, it is not realistic.”_

_Yeah_ , Chris nodded, _memory is indeed damn nonrealistic._ Also, _his_ memory was obviously big on poetic license. His brain had omitted a ton of details where Zach was concerned in the course of just a few months. Like how much he lo— how much he _liked_ the exquisite nuances of Zach’s voice. His heart ached with each line, with each gesture.

_“In memory everything seems to happen to music.”_

Chris shuddered as a nearly overwhelming sense of surrealism gripped him. He knew it was impossible, but he could have sworn the stage music was that Edward Sharpe song all over again. And no matter how much the play captivated him, every now and again the story and the stage faded away. Scenes turned into slow-motion close-ups of Zach, of Zach talking to Chris instead of Tom speaking to the other actors.

What are you even doing here? the shadows surrounding the stage demanded. And on the stage, Zach shouted: _“In my life here that I can call my OWN! Everything is—”_

_I— I wanted to see your play, of course_ , Chris thought. But that wasn’t quite true.

_I wanted to see_ you, he admitted.

_“Adventure and change were imminent in this year. They were waiting around the corner for—”_

For ... ? But Chris didn’t hear the rest of that passage because his heartbeat reverberated in his ears like fucking jungle drums.

_“What did you wish for?”_ Amanda asked on the stage, startling Chris back to his senses.

Zach looked at Chris. Or did he? _“That’s a secret.”_

Tom’s monologue to introduce Jim really messed with Chris’s mind. For a moment he didn’t know anymore if he was watching the play or if he heard Spock talking about Jim _Kirk_ or if this was Zach talking about _him_ , about Chris.

_“Captain ... always running or bounding, never just walking ... always at the point of defeating the law of gravity ... I'm not patient. I don't want to wait ... I know I seem dreamy, but inside ...”_

When Zach wasn’t on stage, Chris was torn between relief and grief. As if all of a sudden not seeing Zach for a few minutes was too long, too much of a separation. And the splintered silence between the scenes asked him the same question over and over again: _What the fuck are you doing here?_

_“I didn't go to the moon, I went much further – for time is the longest distance between places,”_ Zach declared in his closing speech, and Chris’s stomach twisted into a tight knot. _“I tried to leave you behind me, but I am more faithful than I intended to be ...”_

The candles went out; the scene dissolved; the applause was deafening.

Chris needed more than a moment to come back to reality. He needed even longer to man up and walk to the backstage entrance, asking politely if it was okay to go through. (“Yes, of course, Mr. Pine. If you’ll come with me, Mr. Pine ...”)

Then he stood in a dimly lit hallway that smelled of sweat and dust and powder, knocking on a battered, non-descript wooden door. Five seconds later, Chris was staring at Zach, who was visibly still in the process of cleaning up after the play. His damp hair stuck up every which way. His face was flushed, his eyes still shining with stage high.

“What the fuck, Chris.” Zach beamed at him. “You couldn’t have called? Or texted? Or something?”

Chris attempted to shrug but didn’t get anywhere with the gesture because he was pulled into a tight embrace that left him breathless all over again, his heart pounding. How could something as elusive as the hug from an old friend affect him so strongly? Also, his heart wasn’t the only part of his anatomy that reacted to Zach’s greeting, though luckily his friend didn’t seem to notice.

“I should have,” Chris admitted. “And I should have brought flowers. Blue roses, of course. Or champagne. Or both. Yeah, definitely both.” For a desperate second, he thought he couldn’t come up with a compliment that wouldn’t make him sound insane. Fortunately, he sort of remembered a very sophisticated review he’d read in the New York Times months ago. “You know, that Brantley guy in the Times was right. This play? It’s really career-defining for you. _Life-defining._ And he used all those cool words in his article that currently escape me. Except fucking fantastic. Fabulous.”

“Stuff it with the alliterations, already. That’s so Peter Piper.” But Zach couldn’t stop grinning. “Give me ten minutes. Then we can head out. Go somewhere, or hang at my place.”

“Your place sounds good. I’ve been somewhere too often lately.” Chris gave Zach his best puppy dog eyes and added plaintively, “My introvert tendencies are in desperate need of assuaging.”

“Poor baby.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> • Quoted passages in italics during the play indicate quotes from “The Glass Menagerie” by Tennessee Williams.
> 
> • The review Chris refers to is the article “Wounded by Broken Memories” by Ben Brantley, New York Times Theater Reviews, September 26, 2013.


	5. Icarus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Song for this chapter:** [“Icarus” (Bastille)](http://youtu.be/FehA9OwZflw)

### Icarus

When they entered Zach’s flat, what Chris noticed first wasn’t the dogs swarming them but a stack of moving boxes, each of them neatly labeled with a name he recognized from various sources. (Because fucking _everybody_ had felt it necessary and appropriate to point out to him that Zach was in a relationship again last fall. _And_ to provide pictures whenever any surfaced. As if he needed proof. As if being forced to consider the nature of his friendship with Zach all over again changed. A. _Fucking_. Thing.) But damn, he should have paid more attention to what Zach had _not_ mentioned at the theater. Namely, the whereabouts of the current twink that evening.

And he knew it was damn bad style how his stomach was doing fucking flip-flops with relief. He swallowed hard and tried to come up with a suitable comment in reaction to the obvious.

“I ... I thought you were happy,” Chris stuttered. “I mean, I saw pictures of New Year’s somewhere. You looked happy.”

“I was happy,” Zach said, his voice expressionless. He closed the door with a decisive shove. When he turned around, Chris caught a glimmer of anger in his dark eyes. “ _You_ looked like an actor in Paris.”

That was more than a little unfair, and a lot hurtful. But Zach _was_ hurting. That much was clear. And not just because of that boy, Chris realized with a start. That was new. So Zach had gotten an eyeful of the pictures from his trip with Iris, and he hadn’t liked them. Chris really shouldn’t be that stunned and thrilled as a result. As if his whole universe had just tilted on its axis. Or worse, _righted_ itself.

“I am an actor,” he said softly. Then he attempted a crooked smile. “My publicist tells me that over on Just Jared they still believe I’m gay.”

How Zach didn’t snort now, that was new, too. Or was it?

So far, Zach had always been uncharacteristically aggressive about that issue. Ready to get in the face of interviewers or fans at the drop of a fug hat, really. (“... only good friends. Any suggestion otherwise has more to say about the person making the suggestion ...”) And Chris got it, sort of. Or he thought he did, anyway. Zach was just that protective. Of his friends. Of his family. Of helpless animals and various good causes. Even of seemingly sexually confused costars. But Zach’s behavior had always annoyed Chris, too. Almost hurt him, kind of. To be typecast like that without question or comment. Now he wondered if he’d ever really understood Zach’s motivations.

“So, pizza.” Zach grabbed a menu from the sideboard and held it out to Chris. “Pick your poison. And then you need to say hi to Noah and Skunk properly.”

“And to Prince Harry.”

Zach just rolled his eyes at the old joke, and suddenly Chris felt at home.

They shared pizza and a messy mixed salad and a rather noble Montepulciano on the sofa, fighting off Noah and Skunk. (“Ever since that ‘Side By Side’ thing, the damn dogs are convinced pizza is pet food. I swear, Susan is a dog whisperer. She put them up to it. They never begged for pizza before, and now they do it all the time.”) Harry, older and smaller and thinner than Chris remembered him, purred away on his lap like a little furry engine and didn’t mind being “Pined” with morsels of mozzarella. This homely scene set the mood for their conversation, too. They talked small stuff. The fur-babies; how Harold had been sick. Chris’s garden – how he’d learned the hard way that to remove side-shoots from tomato plants is a good idea and what to do about mealybugs in his orange trees. Family and friends. The polar vortex. The solar panels Chris was having installed at his house.

After they had dealt with the dishes and doled out some healthy treats to the pets, they settled on the couch again. The silence was warm and almost intimate. The kind of mood that led to ill-advised confessions.

Perhaps that was the reason why Chris blurted, “I stole a notebook. By mistake. From a fan. At the Ryan premiere in London.”

“How can you steal something by mistake?” Zach raised his eyebrows suggestively. As if he was waiting for the punch line of the joke and fully expected it to be lewd.

“Not like that, asshole.” Chris punched Zach’s arm. “I said premiere, Zach. _Brouhaha._ Chaos, bedlam, pandemonium. I sign the notebook. My publicist yanks at me. A security guy shoves at me. And the next thing I know it’s early morning in L.A. and I still have that damn notebook.”

He groped for his jacket. And yeah, it was probably a little strange – okay, maybe even a lot strange – how he had taken to carrying that notebook around with him wherever he went.

“I think it belongs to a Star Trek fan. There’s some incomprehensible computer stuff and some very strange quotes inside. Actually, I was wondering if you recognize this one.” He opened the notebook at the page with the shadow quote. “For some reason I can’t get it out of my mind.”

Zach frowned at Chris. Then he frowned at the quote.

“That’s Jung,” Zach announced promptly. “From ‘Two Essays on Analytical Psychology’. Jung says that while the logical opposite of love is hate, the psychological opposite is will to power. Depending on your nature, you need the one or the other for balance. His concept of the Shadow that exists within each of us is really interesting. I think you’d totally dig that.” He ran his hand through his hair. Freshly washed after the show and left unstyled for once, it was a beautiful mess by now, all soft and tousled. “But how do you get from Jung to Star Trek?”

Chris blinked. “So you really meant it at that AMA thing, when you wrote you’d be a shrink if you hadn’t become an actor?”

“You read _Reddit_ for me?” Zach asked, incredulous. “That’s _..._ kind of sweet.”

Heat rushed into Chris’s cheeks, and one look at Zach’s twinkling eyes told him that he was flushing like a teenager in the throes of a crush. _“Nrgh,”_ he groaned. “My publicist has an intern. The boy needs to be kept out of mischief. I was just doing my civic duty, is all.”

He turned the page. “The Star Trek I got from this.” He pointed at the comment about mind melds. “Though it doesn’t seem to go well with the bits of Carver here.”

“Carver, is it?” Zach raised an eyebrow à la Spock. Or maybe à la Zach. His eyebrow game was a bit like the chicken/egg dilemma. And watching Zach’s face like that did funny things to Chris’s stomach. A different effect from mere months ago. Stronger. Kind of desperate.

“I’d do it, you know,” Chris admitted, staring intently at the fan’s comment near the bottom of the page. He swallowed hard. “I’d pick mind melds, too. If, you know, Trek was for real. All that bonding stuff. That _uh..._ that intensity of connection.”

Zach stayed silent just a moment too long for his facetious reply to be effective in delivery. “Tsk tsk, Christopher.” He even wagged his index finger at Chris. “Have you been watching ‘Amok Time’ again? You know you’re not supposed to watch that on your own.”

Chris almost whined “But you weren’t there,” although he hadn’t watched or even thought of the episode in ages.

When he didn’t say anything, Zach reached out and flipped to the following page. For a heartbeat, Chris wondered if Zach’s hand was really shaking or if he was imagining things. “That one’s from a song. Home. _‘Home is wherever I'm with you.’_ By Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros.”

“It’s a good song,” Zach said softly.

_“I miss you too much.”_

Fuck, why couldn’t he keep his stupid mouth shut? If he’d been blushing before, he should have been burning up now. Instead, Chris shivered. He turned to the next page and froze. Without blinking, he stared at the text in front of him. Until his contacts felt dry. Then he did blink, violently, before focusing on the notebook again. He hadn’t read that far yet. The left side was blank again. The lines on the next page could have been a poem, if not for the fact that he recognized two phrases.

> **entering orbit**   
> **so wise we grow**   
> **strive seek find yield**   
> **post tenebras lux**

“No idea about entering orbit and the Latin stuff at the end there, but _‘so wise we grow’_ is from Alexander Pope.” He did his best to ignore Zach’s warmth at his side, and the subtle woodsy scent of that pretentious pheromonic perfume Zach loved so much. _“_ _We think our fathers fools, so wise we grow. Our wiser sons, no doubt will think us so,”_ Chris quoted, feeling more unwise than ever before. And that was saying something.

“I think I can help you with ‘the Latin stuff at the end’,” Zach said, as if he hadn’t heard Chris’s outburst over the song lyrics. “It means _‘light after darkness’_. In the Vulgate – that’s a fourth century version of the Bible – the phrase shows up as _‘post tenebras spero lucem’_ in Job. After darkness, I hope for light.” He drank the rest of his wine and turned to look at Chris, his gaze too intense, his mouth Montepulciano red. Damn it, hearing Zach speak Latin shouldn’t affect his dick like that. Nothing short of an overdose with Viagra should have that particular effect. “That motto is also inscribed on the first editions of Cervantes’ Don Quixote,” Zach added.

_Attacking windmills at sunrise_ , Chris thought. _Might be a nice painting, at that._ Actually, he almost felt as if he was tilting at windmills right now. Or at least fighting something much bigger and stronger than he was. For quite some time, already. For far too long, already. And without any discernible effect. But he didn’t know how to give up. _Kind of Kobayashi Maru: How to win when you lose?_ His heart was pounding. His pulse was throbbing in his ears, and in other parts of his body as well. He was dizzy, and the one bottle of wine they had shared so far had nothing to do with that.

“And then there’s Tennyson’s ‘Ulysses’, only not. _Strive seek find yield._ ” He almost didn’t recognize his voice – kind of rough, all sorts of desperate. He looked up again and met Zach’s gaze. “Icarus then,” he said and swallowed hard. It _hurt._ But he was all out of damns to give. He took a deep, shuddering breath, and wondered if that was how Icarus had felt, his wings burned to a crunchy crisp, plunging into the dark, dark sea far below.

“I—” Chris swallowed again, closed the notebook, and carefully put it on the coffee table. Now _his_ hands were shaking, too. “I yield.”

“Chris.” Zach sounded almost angry. No. Scratch that. Not almost angry. _Really_ angry. And oh yes, desperate, too. Fighting some imaginary giants or sliding toward an abyss of his own, perhaps. “You can’t do that. You can’t just show up here, unannounced, and say things like that. And you definitely can’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?” Chris asked.

But he tried not to stare at Zach as he thought of that particular interview. Of how he’d read Zach’s description of his eyes. _C_ _erulean; Bombay Sapphire; the deep end of the pool._ Of how he’d read it a second time. And a third time. No lover had ever looked at him like that. He thought of that stupid song still stuck in his head. _Home is wherever I'm with you._ He’d never felt at home with anyone before.

“You’re a good swimmer, Zachary.”

“The boxes in my hallway would indicate that I rather suck at swimming,” Zach objected. But he didn’t sound angry anymore. Drained, maybe. “And you’re not ...” He gestured randomly, a last ditch attempt at deflection. “No matter what those stalkers at that website are saying.”

“No, I’m not gay,” Chris agreed. “But I’m pretty sure I’m not straight, either.”

Zach lowered his gaze to Chris’s erection. He had the grace to blush. A little, at least. “Yeah, I guess I can see that.”

_“Goddamn it, Zach.”_

Chris wasn’t surprised when Zach put his hand around the back of Chris’s neck in a possessive gesture. Zach always touched him that way. He’d done so from the start. There were photos to prove it. And Chris had always liked that. Liked it a little too much.

Then, finally, fucking _finally_ , Zach kissed him. Lips and teeth and tongue, as if he were drowning, as if he couldn’t wait to go under. Chris let himself sink into the kiss, into the taste of wine and Zach. Each touch of their tongues, each almost-but-not-quite painful nip at his lips sent sparks shooting through his body, right into his groin.

An eternity or mere minutes later, Chris was on his back on the sofa, and Zach was on top of him. _Right._ He knew that. He knew Zach was a top. And it was almost scary how much he wanted that. Needed it. To be pinned down like that, to feel Zach’s dick pressed against his, hot and hard even through those slinky skinny jeans. Chris was out of his damn mind with _need_. With a craving that didn’t qualify as regular desire anymore. It went too deep. It was too intense. After a build-up of seven _fucking_ years. Yeah, de Nile was a wide, wide river.

“Need you, need you, need you,” Chris whimpered and pushed himself against Zach, hoping that after seven years of foreplay he’d last seven minutes. Or heck, at least seven seconds.

“Chris, you’re crazy.” But in spite of the insult, Zach clutched Chris like he was the only thing that kept him afloat, kissed him as if this was the only way Zach could stay breathing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> • “Entering Orbit” refers to [the story with the same title by museaway](http://archiveofourown.org/works/864225).
> 
> • “So Wise We Grow” refers to [the story with the same title by Deastar](http://archiveofourown.org/works/55410).
> 
> • “strive seek find yield” refers to [the story with the same title by waldorph](http://archiveofourown.org/works/125770).
> 
> • “post tenebras lux” refers to [the story with the same title by jouissant](http://archiveofourown.org/works/810838).
> 
> Those are all fabulous stories. Go read them and leave the authors some Kudos and comment love!


	6. The Deep End Of The Pool

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Song for this chapter:** [“Silver Lining” (Hurts)](http://youtu.be/AISOdmPeSZ4)

### The Deep End of the Pool

Chris had no idea how they had made it to Zach’s bed or how they had lost their clothes en route. He only knew there was more of Zach to touch and to taste. And apparently there’d been some truth to that one blind item years ago, or maybe he was just lucky that way, because Zach very obviously had a thing for biting, and – _OW_ **_FUCK!_** – Chris didn’t mind that one little bit. Or bite. When Zach grasped his dick with a practiced grip, Chris almost hyperventilated, gasping for breath with futile moans, before he managed to make himself understood.

“Stop, stop, stop,” he cried, writhing, then begged even before Zach could freeze mid-motion, “Don’t want to come just like that. Want the real thing, the real— Just _fuck_ me, Zach. Please.”

“Damn it, Chris, calm down. What the hell did they put on your pizza?” Zach held him down effortlessly, pinning his wrists to the mattress above his head. His eyes were almost black now, blazing with irritation and desire.

“I just ...” Chris stared up at Zach while his dick pulsed against his stomach, slick with pre-come and sweat. “... want you. And – want you to want me. So much.”

At those words Zach melted against him, heavy and hot. He kissed Chris again, on his lips, his jaw, his cheeks, on his temples.

“I do,” Zach promised. “Want you. So much. More, even.”

“Okay.” Chris sighed. _“Okay.”_ For some reason he could relax a little now, come back to himself. As if his body was beginning to believe in Zach, because he could feel Zach all over: awkward bones pressed together, hips and shoulders, legs tangled, arms linked; naked skin, smooth or rough with body hair, hot and good and oh God, Zach’s taste in his mouth – and their smell, skin and sweat and sex, better than any radical hipster perfume in the whole damn world.

Zach rolled off to his side. He reached for the nightstand and rummaged for the necessary paraphernalia. But his left hand he kept on Chris’s stomach – as if Chris might drift away and disappear the moment they stopped touching. Chris covered Zach’s hand with his, pressing Zach’s fingers into his skin, holding on, Zach’s hand his anchor.

A moment later, Zach pushed himself up and bent over Chris. He touched his lips to Chris’s fingers in a brief caress before he slid their joined hands away, before he stared in obvious fascination at Chris’s belly button.

“So weird,” Zach murmured. “As if you can’t decide whether you want to be an innie or an outie.” He swirled his tongue around it. “I love it. Been wondering for years what it would feel like to kiss you there. Been wanting to do that to you for so long.”

“Fuck—” Chris convulsed, torn between the effects of tickling and desire. “Don’t do that. Don’t you dare—”

But Zach was already blowing a raspberry against his belly button, and he didn’t give Chris the chance to retaliate. Because the next thing Chris knew was how Zach’s mouth fit around his cock, how his hand cupped his balls with gentle, insistent pressure, how he still had enough strength and control to hold him down with the other arm ... Chris’s brain short-circuited again into a state of mindless pleasure. Instinctively, he spread his legs for Zach, although he was beginning to doubt they’d last long enough for that to happen tonight, no matter how much he wanted it.

Zach was paying close attention to his body, however, and drew away just in time. The unmoving, unrelenting pressure of Zach’s palm on his penis pulled Chris back from the brink once more. “You’ve never done that before? With anyone? Or anything?”

“Well ...” Chris couldn’t stop himself from trying to push upwards into Zach’s hand. But Zach was a lot stronger even than he looked. “Fingers, of course. Not all girls are shrinking violets. Toys, sometimes. I can find my prostate without Google maps, but—”

He’d always been attracted to men, too. But for some reason he’d rarely felt compelled to do much about it beyond some fooling around in college that had merely involved heavy petting and mutual handjobs. Later on, there’d been just this one insane, drunken night with blowjobs and rimming during a junket years ago. For the most part he was okay with restraining those desires to the safe realm of masturbatory fantasies. That was easier on his career and his publicist’s and agent’s nerves.

“No, not really,” he summed up his personal experience with gay sex honestly. “But I do want you to fuck me, okay?”

“No worries,” Zach promised. “Will do.” He stretched upwards once more to kiss Chris. “I’m sorry; this isn’t the ideal position for that kind of thing, like, definitely not for the first time. But I need – I need to see you. Your eyes.”

“I don’t ...” Chris couldn’t help himself. He had to pull Zach closer, wrap his arms around him, his hands gripping Zach’s ass, hungry, greedy for more. “... I don’t mind pain.”

“Damn it, Chris. Don’t say things like that.” But after another kiss, Zach moved lower, biting again, his nipples this time, and none too gently. Chris hissed at the hurt, but he’d been honest. And right now he was way too aroused to tell pain from pleasure anyway, so he just pressed his erection harder against Zach’s hand.

With a pleased growl, Zach turned his attention to other, more relevant areas of Chris’s body. At a pointed nudge, Chris hitched up his right leg and spread himself open as wide as he could. Zach took the time to shove a pillow under Chris’s ass before he slid his hand to Chris’s cock and down to his balls again, then even lower to his taint, rubbing, circling, pressing fingertips into his hole. Then Chris heard the plastic sound of a bottle being popped open, followed by a liquid squirt. The cool slide of lube startled Chris, but just for a heartbeat. A moment later, his body seemed unable to figure out what was more important: Zach’s hot, wet mouth on his dick or Zach’s slick finger in his ass. When Zach added another finger and began to rub Chris’s prostate with skilful pressure, the electric surge that shot up his spine decided the question in favor of his ass.

“More,” Chris groaned and involuntarily pushed down. “Fuck, Jesus.”

The interruption of Zach fiddling with the condom jerked Chris out of his daze again. A sudden, unexpected rush of adrenaline catapulted him into almost surreal hyperawareness. He hissed through the burning ache of what felt like way too much dick in his ass that followed a moment later. But when Zach stilled inside his body, the descriptions he’d read in one of Iris’s gay porn novels proved to be true. At this stage, he didn’t feel good or bad, just full, full to bursting. A weird sensation, so much pressure inside his body, but it was all kinds of incredible, too, to feel so full, so _complete_ ... And Zach had been right about eye contact. Because he definitely needed to see Zach’s eyes. Burning, feverish, exclusively focused on him.

Then Zach gripped his shoulders with bruising force. “Legs up, Christopher,” he ordered, his voice rough with lust. “I know how much you work out. Let’s put those muscles to good use.”

Chris obeyed, and before he had a chance to feel stupid for lying on his back in the exact same vulnerable position he’d enjoyed a dozen girls in, Zach was pulling out, only to push in again. Slow, then fast, pressing close enough against Chris’s stomach to rub against his cock in the process. His calculated, controlled rhythm drove all coherent thought from Chris’s mind. The indistinct pressure of Zach’s body on his dick provided not enough friction to make him come – just enough to make him go crazy with arousal. They kept staring at each other as they moved together, couldn’t look away from each other’s eyes, their gazes locked together. Pain melted away into pure passion, into more than desire, into sensations and emotions Chris couldn’t even begin to define.

Suddenly, Zach hesitated. _“Close now.”_

Chris couldn’t even nod, and he was way beyond words. Just knowing that Zach was about to orgasm pushed him to the point of no return, too. His balls tightened in aching anticipation. With a wicked grin, Zach slid his hand down between their bodies and gripped his cock, thumbing roughly over the head until Chris moaned, almost too close to climax for comfort.

With a harsh sigh, Zach thrust into him with more force than before, the strokes of his hand around Chris’s dick keeping up the same relentless rhythm. Three times, four times. The pace, the pressure, it was almost too much. _No._ _Not almost._ When Chris thought he had to scream or explode, Zach convulsed deep within his body, shuddered all over in an intense, helpless release, his groan muffled in a messy kiss. Even as he slumped over Chris’s body, drained and exhausted, Zach tightened his grip around Chris’s cock once more. He jacked him once, twice – and that was that. Chris came so hard he could feel each spurt in his whole damn body, in every muscle and every nerve.

Afterwards, Zach extricated himself quickly, and yeah, that was rather unpleasant, hurting him in a surprisingly emotional way. But before Chris had time to process the loss of their physical connection, Zach was back with a warm, wet cloth. After he’d cleaned them up some, he pulled Chris into his arms. Not spooning, but face to face. Their legs tangled under the warm duvet, and Zach entwined their fingers with his left hand.

“Need to see your eyes,” Zach whispered, as if he had to justify the position.

“Need _you_ ,” Chris murmured his answer, but he didn’t want to look away from Zach’s eyes, either.

They managed to fall asleep like that, looking into each other’s eyes, hopelessly entangled, drifting from post-climactic daze into deep slumber together.


	7. Cupcakes For The Princess

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Song for this chapter:** [“Songs of Love” (Ben Folds)](http://youtu.be/LNs2gJ5yb_c)

### Cupcakes for the Princess

Base needs of his body and a nicely messed up bio-rhythm conspired against Chris’s desire to sleep in the next morning. Zach was still conked out, comatose and snoring softly. Chris discovered he was fucking sore in every possible meaning of the phrase, and that the aftereffects of receiving anal sex were much messier than giving it, condom or no condom.

After a quick shower, he hesitated in front of the bathroom mirror. Not even the gentle fog that softened his reflection could obscure just how well-fucked he looked. More than. A bruise or two, teeth-marks, and red, chafed nipples told their own story of last night. More unsettling, however, was the curious impression that _he_ had changed somehow. That he was not the same man who’d arrived in New York the previous day. He stared into his eyes in the mirror, but he couldn’t make any sense of what he saw.

In an attempt to shake off strange “morning after” thoughts, Chris managed to remember how to feed Zach’s pets before they woke their master with their morning whines. Then he investigated the fridge and helped himself to orange juice and a rather bland organic yogurt. He kind of hoped that letting Zach sleep in would result in a real breakfast later on, with bacon and pancakes and things.

Back in the living room, he picked up the notebook again. His heartbeat sped up at the poem-like quotes they had read the night before, and he quickly turned the page. He didn’t want to linger on that while he was alone.

The next, left-hand page was blank again, but there was another quote on the right side, which confirmed the identity of the notebook’s owner as a “Star Trek” fan.

> **They are tragedies and heroes and cautionary tales and they never grow up or grow old, they simply are.**
> 
> **Jim Kirk is a pain in Spock's ass.**

Chris snorted. “That one they got wrong,” he muttered and shifted uncomfortably on the couch. “Zach’s the one who’s a pain in my ass.”

“Sore, sweetheart?” Zach sat down next to him, snaking his arm around his back, hugging him close.

Chris turned his head and grinned. “Like hell, damn it. But—” A kiss interrupted his sentence and effectively cut off his train of thought.

Blissful minutes passed with gentle necking, soft kisses and caresses included for free. Chris already knew that Zach could be incredibly tender. But he was relieved that Zach didn’t hesitate over such gestures with him this morning. He didn’t try to suppress the thrill of hope anymore that centered in a warm feeling in the pit of his stomach.

“Still obsessing over stolen goods, Christopher?” Zach reached for the notebook. For a second, he grinned at the passage he’d interrupted Chris with. Then he flicked to the next page.

“Hmm,” Zach hummed appreciatively and smacked his lips. “A recipe for vegan cupcakes. We could try that today, if you want. I think I could do it. Doesn’t sound too difficult.”

“Urgh, no.” Chris groaned. “I was hoping for a _real_ breakfast, you know. With bacon. And _things_. Also, what’s so fannish about vegan cupcakes?”

Zach shrugged. “Spock would eat them.”

“If _you_ ’d go so far as to suggest actually baking them, I’m sure he would ...” Chris hastily flipped the page to remove the temptation of healthy living from Zach’s sight.

Neither of them had any idea what the following cheesy love poem about star-met lovers had to do with Star Trek.

“Way too sentimental for Spock,” Zach said finally, after they’d stared at the seven lines in baffled silence for a minute or two.

Chris nodded. “Can you imagine Kirk going _‘we are the dream of the ages’_?” He shuddered. “Well, I can’t.”

(Very secretly, he thought the poem might be nice for a wedding. But only because sentimental lyrics suited such occasions. Not because he had a romantic streak that was approximately a mile wide or anything like that.)

Because he was still arguing with himself over appropriate moments for extreme sappiness, he never noticed when Zach turned the page again. Zach’s sudden laughter, however, was impossible to miss. He threw his head back and laughed like a loon, sending Harold scrambling for safety in a panic.

“What?!” Chris asked and craned his neck to see what the heck was so funny. Not even five words. With some LOLs scrawled underneath.

> **Dr. and Mrs. Princess Whitelaw**
> 
> **_LOLOLOL_ **

“What?!” Chris repeated. “Or to be more precise: What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

Zach couldn’t seem to stop chortling, collapsed against the back of the sofa, helplessly shaking his head. At last he gasped for air and managed to reply. “That’s us,” he sporfled. “Not Spock and Kirk. _You and me._ Dr. and Mrs. Princess Whitelaw.”

Chris blinked at him. “And you know this how?”

“Because fandom.” Still out of breath, Zach added, “It’s one of their nicknames for you. Don’t tell me you didn’t know that, Your Royal Highness?”

“I know those movies will never stop haunting me,” Chris grumbled.

Zach just snorted. “Anyway, what with that quote, my best guess is that the fan you stole this from is not just a Star Trek fan. It’s one of those tinhats who’ve always believed in our secret love affair.”

Chris stared at the notebook. After last night the joke was on them in that respect. But even though he knew it was futile, he felt compelled to make an effort for old times’ sake at least. “Because of course you’re the doctor in question. It could be McCoy.”

“No, that would be a crossover.” Zach shook his head, always the expert on everything. “Also, psychologically speaking it’s interesting that you identify with the wife’s part in this.”

“I ...” Chris started and promptly fell silent because he had no fucking clue if there was a correlation between bottoming for their first time and his spontaneous interpretation of that line. And if he cared. “I ...” He tried again. “I thought you hate fanfic.”

“I’m not allowed to anymore,” Zach muttered. “My PR people came down on me like a brick wall after Ireland. I was lucky they didn’t send me to some kind of fandom reeducation camp.”

Chris winced in sympathy. Been there, done that. At least he had a cool t-shirt to show for it. There was more than one very good reason he normally stayed as far away from the internet and social media as he could get away with.

“Although, they kind of did that anyway,” Zach added with a grimace. “I had to suffer through some thoroughly embarrassing explanations about fandom and fan fiction. They have an intern for that.”

“Okay, fine,” Chris agreed grudgingly, in the hope to be spared any further details. “The owner of the notebook is a tinhat who’d like to think we’ve always had the kind of passionate love affair we actually just _um,_ embarked on.” In a way that was hysterical. Also sort of of embarrassing, if their body language had really given them away for years while they’d remained determinedly oblivious. Kind of begged the question who the tinhats really were in this situation. “But what does that tell us?”

“Not much, really.” Zach closed the notebook with a thud and shrugged. “Unless you want to Google all the quotes.”

“Do _you_ want to Google all the quotes?!”

“Nope. Better things to do with my time.” Zach winked at Chris suggestively. “Although ...” He frowned and opened the notebook again, at the beginning this time. He leafed through the technical gibberish of the first pages. “Just as I thought. We can skip the fanfic. Because you missed something in the first part, you Luddite. Look, here’s a company name, a URL, and an email address. With this information, we should be able to figure out who the notebook belongs to. ”

“Cool.” Chris plucked the notebook from Zach’s hands. For a moment he pondered the booklet. It appeared harmless. Innocent, almost. Yeah, _right_. “You know, since we’ve already proved them right, we could go and read those stories. Maybe they are hot.”

“Or maybe you could shut up and we could fuck.”

Chris’s pulse sped up. Sore as he was, he wouldn’t mind more of the peculiar mixture of pleasure and pain he’d experienced the previous night. He put the notebook back on the coffee table and turned to Zach.

“I’m all for it,” he said softly. But instead of pulling Zach against him or on top of him, he reached out and dared to lay his hand against Zach’s cheek in a gentle gesture. “It’s not just sex, Zach.”

Zach swallowed hard enough that his Adam’s apple jumped. But he didn’t draw away. Instead he covered Chris’s hand with his own.

“There’s ...” Chris tried to explain in order to untwist that damn knot in his stomach at long last. “There’s too much between us already. More ...” Now it was his turn to gulp in an attempt to rid himself of the lump in his throat. “More than I’ve shared with anyone, _ever_.”

 _So much more than those boxes in your hallway,_ Chris thought.

Zach stared at him in silence, his eyes huge and dark and—

 _“Burned umber,”_ Chris whispered. _“Perfect black coffee. Glowing embers in the depths.”_

“That,” Zach started. Blinked. All dorky and ditzy with his black-rimmed glasses. “Is absurd. _But._ You do have a point,” he admitted and exhaled in a sigh. “With what there is between us, I mean. Seven years. No matter where we’ve been or what we’ve done. Together and apart.”

Chris nodded. “All that jazz.” He licked his lips and reveled in the heat that gesture conjured up in Zach’s eyes. “And,” he added, because this was important, “I’ve always been okay with saying I love you. You know that. Only now ...” He took a deep breath and let his hand sink down to their laps. And Zach didn’t let go of him but held on tightly. “... _now_ I want to be allowed to say that I’m in love with you, too.”

He could see that Zach was scared. That he was thinking of the damn boxes in the hallway. And probably of publicists and paparazzi. Maybe even how one gay night (no matter how glorious) mattered little in the greater scheme of things. He thought he could also see Zach _want_. Want all the things they had already shared. Want all the other things they _could_ share on top of that. Like all kinds of kisses and naked skin and orgasms and falling asleep together and waking up together and ...

They sat staring at each other and holding hands long enough for Harry to come back and curl up in Chris’s lap, a purring ball of mostly black fur. As if Chris was an absolutely natural addition to his universe _. Thanks for that vote of confidence, buddy,_ Chris thought with a smile.

“Okay,” Zach muttered at last. “I ... I yield, too. Though I may need some swimming lessons yet.” He hadn’t forgotten their skewed metaphors from the previous night.

Chris nodded. “Same here, definitely.” With a dramatic sigh he added, “And as long as I get bacon for breakfast, we can try making those vegan cupcakes this afternoon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> • The quote about Jim being a pain in Spock’s ass is from the summary of [the story “my boy builds coffins” by waldorph](http://archiveofourown.org/works/165561).
> 
> • The vegan cupcakes are an allusion to the story [“Vegan Cupcakes for All (Or Whatever)” by Medeafic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/179955).
> 
> • The recipe for vegan cupcakes used in the banner may be found here: [Vegan Cupcakes](http://allrecipes.com/recipe/vegan-cupcakes/)
> 
> • The extremely sentimental poem is “We are star-met” by Leonard Nimoy, in: “A Lifetime of Love”
> 
> • “Dr. and Mrs. Princess Whitelaw” refers to [the story with the same title by leupagus and screamlet](http://archiveofourown.org/works/64506).


	8. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Song for this chapter:** [“Jungle Drum” (Emiliana Torrini)](http://youtu.be/iZ9vkd7Rp-g)

### Epilogue

The package, premium express delivery, marked private, no return address, arrived on a lovely day in May 2014. She’d never received a parcel at work before and was somewhat perplexed at who’d send such a bulky box to her company’s address. All her friends and family knew her home address.

When she opened the box, she had to sit down. Sit down, gasp, hyperventilate, and generally struggle not to black out for a good ten minutes.

The package contained her missing notebook – the one Chris Pine had stolen at the “Jack Ryan” premiere in London – an air-tight, sealed container with two wonky, crumbling cupcakes that sported sloppy frosting in blue and bright yellow, and a card.

The card was simple cream-colored cardboard. Nothing fancy, nothing cheap.

On the front, a neat note read:

> **This notebook has developed a narrative thread.**

On the back, someone had added in a different, edgier handwriting:

> **and an ending with vegan cupcakes.**

Eventually, she managed to scrounge up the courage to open the notebook. Whatever misadventures the notebook had survived, it had definitely come out worse for wear. A bit battered. Used. To her horror especially the second part of the notebook appeared rather well-read and worn, the corners of the pages round and soft from being thumbed through regularly.

There was an oil stain on the cupcakes recipe she didn’t remember. And it looked as if the notebook had lain open at the page with the Star Trek story titles (entering orbit/so wise we grow/strive seek find yield/post tenebras lux) in front of a window for weeks. The lines were faded, the ink not as dark as the song title on the previous page.

And at the very back, next to Chris Pine’s name, a second signature had been added:

> **Z. Quinto**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “This notebook has developed a narrative thread” is an allusion to the story [“D:” by leupagus, rageprufrock](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5330).
> 
> * * *
> 
> Well, that’s it. My first foray into the depraved depths of explicit RPS is over, and the notebook has been returned to its rightful owner, slightly worse for wear and with distinct delusions of grandeur (but what can you expect of a kinky plot device like that?).
> 
> I hope you had as much fun reading the story as I had writing it. Thank you for reading, for all the kudos and the fabulous feedback. Comments are the best thank-you fanfic writers can receive, and I cherish them all.
> 
> If you are into “Star Trek”, please check out my epic AU [“The Resilience of Hope”](http://archiveofourown.org/works/947695).
> 
> Cheers,  
> Juno
>
>> _One must still have chaos in oneself to be able to give birth to a dancing star._   
>  _– Friedrich Nietzsche_


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